That Means a Lot
by fireweed15
Summary: Face has had a lot of scrapes with death himself, but it takes almost losing their invincible leader to make him realize how he wants to spend the rest of his life.


Backcountry hospitals weren't unfamiliar to the team. They practically had frequent flier miles, if Face was perfectly honest with himself. They'd all spent their time in them, in varying degrees, their little brushes with death. Hell, Face knew he had an unofficial title: Bullet Magnet. If anyone was going to get shot at or put in danger of grievous bodily harm, it was him.

But Hannibal? Not Hannibal. He was the golden boy, never once sustaining an injury greater than a nasty cut. Nothing life threatening, even when he was putting his ass on the line for them.

What was the quote, the one about all good things? Yeah—_all good things must end_. Face wanted to find the son of a bitch who first said them and ask them why they had to say it and make it true.

Today was the day Hannibal had his brush with death.

Face would hesitate to say that there was a normal day in their line of work, but really—it had started out like a fairly normal day. Helping those who needed it but had nowhere else to turn, taking out the trash masquerading as human beings—every little boy's dream of shootouts with the bad guys? They lived it.

Except for the part where the fearless leader was shot. That often never entered the minds of little boys, playing with "guns" that were really just long sticks in their backyards with their friends. But this wasn't someone's backyard, and this wasn't an imaginary wound inflicted by an imaginary gun. This was a real bullet in the chest, that was real blood and that was real panic closing in on all of them, Face more so than anyone else.

That had been early this morning; now it was six o'clock in the evening, according to the pink plastic clock on the wall of… well, it was the spare bedroom of a local doctor's house, which apparently doubled as the clinic. BA and Murdock were on reconnaissance—well, that was what Face called it when he all but shoved them out of the room telling them to go pick up some supplies. Really, he wanted time to think.

Face sighed and ran his hands through his hair, realizing as he lowered them that there was still blood around the nail beds. He couldn't say he was surprised; he was the one who had been applying pressure to the wound, and hadn't exactly had his mind on getting his hands one hundred percent clean when he'd finally gotten around to it. He felt almost stupid for his reaction to Hannibal being shot—he was an Army lieutenant, a Vietnam veteran to boot. He'd seen plenty of things that would take a few years off a lesser man's life; why was he so shaken now?

Deep down, in his heart of hearts, he knew he didn't have to ask: because the idea of losing Hannibal was a frightening one.

His relationship with Hannibal was an odd one—the emotional attraction, the chemistry, was undeniably there. The physical end of things was another matter; that was when a sort of agreement had come into play—Face saw the ladies but always came home, as it were, to Hannibal. This was marginally complicated by the fact that Face moved around so much. Honestly—when was the last time he could remember seeing the same woman from week to week? It was a habit, a sort of second nature.

Now he was beginning to question that habit. He knew that from the standpoint of someone who didn't know the full story, he was a philanderer (hell, he was fully aware of it himself), and a small of him tended to feel bad about it, about the none too subtle flirtations right under Hannibal's nose. He'd always brushed it off as, _Life is short_. Today, the darker side of that statement came into play.

Face shelved those thoughts for the time being, looking over at Hannibal in the hopes of distracting himself. Aside from looking pale from blood loss, he seemed… oddly restful. Almost at peace. To be honest, he looked a little too close to dead for Face's liking. He would have wrapped himself in Hannibal's jacket (and the accompanying lingering scent of cigar smoke), but… he could only hope the dry cleaner didn't ask about the unmistakable stain and the distinct hole in the middle of it. He groaned softly and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

The bed in front of him creaked softly, and there was the distinct sound of someone waking up. Face lifted his head in time to see Hannibal waking and sitting up slightly, and he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. "Oh God, I thought you were going to—"

"Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated," Hannibal replied easily, shifting to make himself comfortable before looking over at his lieutenant. "What'd I miss?"

Normally, Face might have chuckled and pointed out that the world wouldn't be rid of Hannibal Smith that easily; this situation, though, called for a little more solemnity. "I've been thinking," he replied with a slight shrug.

Hannibal frowned in thought. "About what?"

Face paused, trying to find a way to properly verbalize what had been on his mind. Failing that, he waved a hand slightly, indicating the two of them.

"I'm listening," Hannibal prompted, nodding slightly.

Here, Face was stuck. Perhaps a small part of his subconscious had been hoping he wouldn't ask after it. Then again, this was Hannibal Smith—nothing got past him. Not by a long shot. "Well—you know, after everything we've been through, and not just today—"

Hannibal quirked an eyebrow at Face, giving him a look that suggested he simply say what was on his mind.

It was a look with which Face was quite familiar. He sighed and started over. "You and I need to put some serious thought to quitting pussyfooting around and actually… y'know, settling down." As much as self-described soldiers of fortune could settle down, at least.

Hannibal frowned again, considering the proposal. Most men would be, on a personal level, intimidated or put off, perhaps marginally offended, by the words, but he was not one such man. Though there was the matter of—"Face, you do realize who and where we are, right?"

Ah yes, there was a little bit of cultural hang-up in what Face was suggesting, wasn't there? "Yeah," he replied, reaching out for Hannibal's hand, "but I wasn't asking who and where we were."

"Coming from you, Face," Hannibal replied, taking Face's hand and smiling warmly, "that means a lot."


End file.
